


Vodka and Vanilla

by WritingForTheRevolution



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Skinny Dipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingForTheRevolution/pseuds/WritingForTheRevolution
Summary: “I dare you to go skinny dipping in the lake. With Thomas.”“And... he has to be the one to undress you.”
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 292





	Vodka and Vanilla

**Author's Note:**

> It has been a long absence, but I am back. School takes up an impressive amount of time.
> 
> This one has been in the works for about a year and a half. I'm not entirely sure where the idea came from, but here we are.

Why Thomas had thought it would be a good idea to come to this party, he had no clue.

Parties weren’t really his thing in general. There was alcohol involved more often than not, and Thomas didn’t enjoy drinking around other people, mostly because he was too afraid that he would accidentally slip and say something that didn’t need to be revealed in front of a dozen strangers. So no, excessive drinking didn’t appeal to him.

He leans against the wall of the porch, non-alcoholic drink in hand, and thanks whatever god is listening that this is a relatively calm party. Lafayette had decided that spending a few days at his family’s house on the lake would be a great way to celebrate before beginning their senior year of college, and he’d invited a fairly small group of people compared to his normal house parties during the year.

Right now, he’s standing alone, staring out at the beach below, absently listening to whatever interesting playlist floats through the house and out into the cool night air. Angelica had come by a few minutes ago and they had talked for a bit before she went to find her youngest sister, commenting something about how her given name shouldn’t be her sole choice of drink for the night. Laf had made his rounds, flitting from room to room to check on his guests, and had berated Thomas for being antisocial.

Thomas had accepted the invitation under the assumption that James would be here, but his friend had gotten sick at the last moment. James had apologized a dozen times when Thomas picked up the phone, his voice throaty and choked, and Thomas had assured him that it was fine. It wasn’t James’ fault that he got sick so often, after all.

But by then, Thomas had already accepted Lafayette’s invitation, and there wasn’t an easy way to back out. He couldn’t say no to Laf’s puppy-dog eyes and pleading pout, which, he decides, he will regret for the rest of the night after someone suggests that they play spin the bottle.

Thomas drags himself from his thoughts and scoffs. “What are we, teenagers?” he mutters. He pushes himself off the wall and joins the growing circle anyway, mostly to appease Lafayette, but also to deter Hamilton, who would never let him live it down had he decided to sit out.

Lafayette collapses into the last empty spot in the circle, crossing his lanky legs as he leans against Laurens’s shoulder. His friend is _definitely_ tipsy, Thomas decides, if not flat-out drunk, but he’s always been surprisingly coherent and coordinated even when he is.

“Who would like to start?” Lafayette holds up the empty bottle, a few drops of liquid still clinging to the inside of the glass, and Mulligan shrugs.

“I’ll go,” he says, reaching across the circle to snatch the bottle from Laf’s hand and place it down in the center of the circle. Thomas watches him wrap his fingers around the bottle, twist his wrist, and release it, letting the glass rattle dully against the wooden porch before the bottle selects its victim.

The bottle is passed clockwise around the circle, the reactions of the group varying from catcalling to heartfelt _awws_ as certain people are made to kiss others, and then it reaches Thomas.

He takes the cool glass between his fingers and spins it, staring intently while he lets his thoughts wander.

There are some people in the group he wouldn’t mind kissing, to be honest. He’s friendly with Angelica, and they’re both logical enough to comprehend that it’s just a kiss. Lafayette wouldn’t be a bad choice either; the two of them have kissed before, both drunk and sober. Laurens, on the other hand, would make a big deal of it, and would continue to tease Thomas about it for at least a week. And Hamilton, well...

The bottle slows down, spinning once, twice; slowly.

It lands on Hamilton.

A swelling chorus of _ohhhs_ fills the silence after the bottle stops moving, and Thomas wonders if, by some miracle, he’s been transported back to a class of sixth graders after some kid has gotten called down to the principal’s office.

“The bottle has chosen!” Lafayette crows happily, and yeah, he’s drunk. A functional drunk, but drunk nonetheless. “You must kiss Alexander.”

Thomas tries for one of his signature cocky smirks as he pushes himself onto his palms and crawls forward, but it feels too forced and probably comes off as more of a grimace.

“Almost as if you enjoy being on your knees, Jefferson,” Laurens calls out, and the group laughs. Cheeky fucking asshole.

“Shut up, Laurens,” Thomas growls, and Laurens snickers, but stops talking.

He meets Hamilton in the center of the circle, their faces less than a foot apart, and Thomas leans forward to make it mere inches. He can feel the cold seeping into his skin from the damp wood of the porch as he steadies himself on the heels of his palms. Hamilton exhales, and Thomas can feel the air stir against his face.

“Just kiss me and be done with it, Jefferson,” he mutters, cocking one eyebrow and tilting his chin up, as if the words are a challenge. Although, with Hamilton, it probably is. Everything is a challenge when it comes to him.

And when it comes to Hamilton, Thomas doesn’t back down.

He tilts his head and presses their lips together before he can lose his nerve. Hamilton’s lips are surprisingly soft, tasting faintly of the fake vanilla that’s usually in beauty products, and whatever bitter alcohol he’s been drinking, which is fitting because Thomas is drunk off the kiss.

Thomas catches the sound of a high-pitched wolf whistle from someone behind him in the circle, and some barely discernible exclamations in French from Lafayette. Laurens is cackling again, but all Thomas can focus on is the feeling of Hamilton’s lips against his, the warmth spreading like wildfire under his skin, from his mouth to the rest of his body; the chill in his fingertips is barely noticeable anymore.

He craves more, more than just a quick and meaningless kiss in the midst of their friends’ teasing, but he knows he can’t have more. The kiss is short, probably less than five seconds, and it’s over too soon. Hamilton pulls away first and glances up, lips slightly parted. Thomas's hand floats awkwardly just above the floor as he resists the urge to reach out and caress Hamilton’s jaw with his fingers.

“You’re a decent kisser,” Hamilton murmurs, smirking as he leans back on his heels. “Though I’d like to see what you could do if you had more than five seconds.”

He pushes himself back into his spot beside Laurens, who wiggles his eyebrows and nudges Hamilton’s shoulder with his elbow only to get a shove in return.

Thomas tears his gaze away.

 _It’s just a party game,_ he reminds himself harshly, zoning out as Laurens spins the bottle and ends up kissing Mulligan, prompting a raucous chorus of cheers. _The kisses don’t mean anything. It’s just a stupid way to pass the time._

Stupid Hamilton and his stupid fucking vanilla chapstick.

Once spin the bottle becomes monotonous and boring, the youngest Schuyler suggests they switch to truth or dare. One glance at Laf’s face, and Thomas resigns himself to the circle once more, sandwiched between Eliza and Burr.

Burr has to prank call Theodosia from Mulligan’s phone. Hamilton is dared to recount the story of the time he accidentally poured Five-Hour Energy into his coffee, something that Thomas finds infinitely amusing. Lafayette lists off his entire sexual history, and _damn_ , there are some people on that list that Thomas never would have guessed. Eliza and Maria are sent inside to the enormous (and conveniently empty) walk-in closet for seven minutes in heaven, and both of them come out looking slightly more disheveled than before. Maria’s lipstick has found its way to Eliza’s face, and the two are holding hands.

Then it’s Lafayette’s turn again, and he leans forward gleefully to twist the glass bottle on the damp wood. Thomas watches intently as it spins in place, the light from the doorway glinting off the green-tinted glass as it slows down, turning once more before the mouth lands on Hamilton.

“Alexander!” Lafayette smiled wickedly and leans forward. “Truth or dare?”

Hamilton throws his head back and grins. Thomas absently admires the curve of his neck until he realizes he’s staring and tears his eyes away.

“Dare, Laf.” Hamilton shakes his hair out of his face and crosses his right leg over his left. “Do you even have to ask?”

Lafayette smirks. “I can always hope you will change your mind, mon ami. Now…” He pauses for a moment, and Thomas swears that Lafayette’s eyes flit in his direction before he speaks.

“I dare you to go skinny dipping in the lake. With Thomas.”

_What?_

“And,” Lafayette continues, and Thomas shoves every imposing thought to the back of his head so he can focus on Laf’s additional conditions. “He has to be the one to undress you.”

 _Fuck._ Thomas prays to whatever god is listening (none, considering that he’s in this mess in the first place) that no one can see the flush he can feel spreading across his face. He looks pointedly away from Hamilton, choosing instead to glare at Lafayette.

Thomas had attended enough of the Frenchman’s parties to know how ruthless the man was during truth or dare. He never paused when it was his turn to give someone a question; rather, he seemed to have an endless arsenal of revealing truths and mortifying dares, and Thomas had always been careful not to slip up and reveal something that Lafayette could blackmail him with.

But then Thomas had fallen for the fiery, dark-haired Caribbean who argued with him every second of the day, and when he’d realized that his passing thoughts were more than just thoughts, the first person he’d rushed to tell had been Lafayette. Only now was he realizing that _that_ had been a colossal fucking mistake. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say.

“If you don’t want to do it...” Lafayette is speaking again, and Thomas forces himself to focus. “You can always back out and answer a truth.”

Thomas can’t see very clearly on the dimly lit porch, but Hamilton’s eyes definitely widen, and then he’s scrambling up from his reclined position on the floor, almost knocking Laurens’s drink into his lap.

“I’ll do the dare,” he says quickly, the words tripping off his tongue as he brushes a few strands of hair away from his eyes and turns to Thomas. “As long as you’re okay with it?”

“I… uh... yeah, sure,” he stammers, biting his lip and swallowing hard. “Don’t want you to lose your lucky streak.”

Hamilton, as far as Thomas knew, had never backed out of a dare, which is actually a pretty impressive feat when one considered his friendships with Laurens and Laf. Those two came up with the most embarrassing challenges, though Lafayette’s were decidedly worse.

“We will continue the game,” Laf slurs, just a little too loudly for the close proximity of the group. “Come join us when you are done.” He tries to wink, but in his drunken state, it turns into a weirdly long blink instead.

Neither of them bother putting on shoes. The dock isn’t that far of a walk, and Thomas doesn’t feel like shaking sand out of his sneakers for the next month and a half. They walk off the porch to mixed catcalls and cheers from the group, and start the trek down to the lake.

It’s a bit of a hike, but at least the long walk gives Thomas some time to think. He’s guessing that his confession to Laf has something to do with this dare, so he can’t really pin this whole thing on Hamilton. Then again, Laf is known for his ruthless dares, and Hamilton has never backed down from a single one, so the Frenchman could very well be trying to get Hamilton to do just that by using Thomas as bait, since they so obviously despise each other with a burning passion.

Yeah right. If hatred underscored by a secret crush on Thomas’s end could be called burning passion.

He can hear Hamilton’s footsteps behind him, short, hurried strides that dislodge pebbles from the hard-packed dirt and send them skittering away into the grass. A few fly off course and bite into Thomas's ankles, but he grits his teeth but doesn’t complain. The night air is cool on his face, and the gentle breeze blows the scent of pine from the trees to his nostrils. He lets his brain turn to autopilot, trusting his feet to carry him toward the beach.

How the hell is he going to live this down? Hamilton probably wouldn’t go so far as to tease him about it, considering he’s half of the dare anyway, and, debatably, has the more embarrassing part of it, but that hasn’t stopped him before, Thomas realizes. The man goes off on any topic under the sun, and it doesn’t matter if he embarrasses himself or not.

It’s honestly kind of endearing.

But forget about Hamilton. Laf will definitely tease him about this for eternity, just because of his stupid crush, and Hamilton’s other friends—Laurens especially—will never let him forget about this. He wouldn’t be surprised if they somehow manage to get video proof of this ordeal.

That thought makes him shiver despite the humid, misty air, and he has to force himself not to look over his shoulder to make sure no one is following them with a camera.

The lush grass beneath his bare feet changes to soft sand, and his distracted brain vaguely registers the gentle lapping of waves against the dock. The beach is lit with pale, almost white moonlight that is both soothing and unsettling. The gentle hills of sand form curved shadows across the ground, and a few clumps of tall, dry grass swish quietly in the wind.

Thomas keeps walking until he reaches the dock, stepping onto the damp wood and praying that he doesn’t get splinters in the bottoms of his feet. He grips the hem of his shirt, and before he can psych himself out, he moves to pull it over his head.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Thomas half-turns, letting go of his shirt as he glances back at Hamilton. He had, admittedly, forgotten that he was here for a dare.

Hamilton has stopped a few feet behind him, frozen in the sand. His face is completely in shadow, so Thomas can’t see his expression, but the apprehensiveness in his voice was apparent.

Thomas raises an eyebrow and attempts to keep his nervousness from slipping into his voice. He can’t give Hamilton anything to use against him.

“Flying a kite,” he drawls, rolling his eyes. “The fuck does it look like? I have to strip, and so do you. I just figured I’d go first.” He shifts, gripping the hem of his shirt again. “Deal with it.”

“Fuck off.”

Thomas snorts. “How eloquent,” he mutters. Hamilton huffs, still glaring, and Thomas smirks.

“Besides,” he continues, hoping that his comments come off as nonchalant instead of anxious and stalling. “You know as well as I that I can’t do that unless you want to answer whatever truth Lafayette comes up with.” He turns away from Hamilton, focusing on the placid water off the end of the dock. “And I get the feeling that you don’t want to do that.”

His arms are crossed over his chest, stretching the fabric of his shirt as he pulls it up and over his head. He thinks he hears Alexander’s sharp intake of breath behind him before the frigid night air assaults his bare skin. He shivers, smoothing his fingers down his chest and gasping silently when they brush his nipples.

He quickly sheds his pants and briefs, ignoring the sting of the cold as he haphazardly folds each piece of discarded clothing. When he looks up, Alexander is openly staring at his naked body, and Thomas swallows, trying to ignore whatever feeling is creeping up with the heat in his stomach.

_When did he become Alexander?_

“Feel free to look at my face,” he says, choosing not to dwell on that thought as he takes a step closer. Alexander’s gaze snaps up to meet his own, and Thomas laughs. A flush has spread across Alexander’s tan skin, and he steps back automatically, his toes sinking into the soft sand.

“Speechless, are we?” Thomas says, still teasing, and _fuck_ , his accent is back. He smirks again to cover the anxiousness, and it feels much more natural than the one on the porch. “I know I look good, darlin’.”

Why the _hell_ had he thought that stripping before Alexander would be a good idea? He is completely nude, and now he has to undress Alexander as well, all while knowing that Alexander had been openly staring at him.

He steps closer, praying that the darkness is enough to cover the heat he can feel rising in his face. He can feel Alexander’s breath on his neck, hot against his cool skin. All the warmth from the kiss over an hour ago has dissipated into the damp air, and Thomas shivers at the temperature difference as he brushes the hem of Alexander’s shirt between his fingers.

“You know, you could just let me strip,” Alexander breathes. “By myself. Laf doesn’t have to know.”

“This is part of the dare,” Thomas murmurs. “If I have to do it, so do you.”

His knuckles brush lightly against Alexander’s stomach as he curls his fingers around the shirt, and Alexander shivers. _And I kind of want to do this,_ is what he doesn’t add. “And besides, we both know that Laf would find out somehow.”

“Fuck Laf,” Alexander groans, and _god_ , if that doesn’t do things to Thomas.

“I’d rather fuck you, if you don’t mind,” Thomas mutters. When his brain finally catches up with his mouth, he immediately wishes he could take the words back, but it’s too late.

He tugs the shirt up, and Alexander reaches his arms above his head to make it easier. Thomas drops the shirt onto the dock and runs his hands down Alexander’s sides, palms flat against his skin, slips his fingers into the waistband of his briefs, pushing them over Alexander’s hips and letting them slip down his legs onto the dock. He runs his hands over Alexander’s body again, exploring the curves in his shoulders and back, and the sharp angles of his hips and collarbone.

Alexander tilts his head back as much as he can with Thomas standing so close. “What are you doing?”

“Admiring you,” Thomas says, and steps back, releasing Alexander’s hips and letting his hands fall to his sides. “Is that a problem?”

“That’s not… that’s not part of the dare,” Alexander splutters. “Just get in the fucking lake so we can be done because it’s cold as shit out here, and not all of us are frigid, soulless demons like you.”

He probably continues with the insults, but Thomas isn’t listening. He scans Alexander from head to toe, taking his sweet time tracing his figure, lingering just a little too long on his neck, his hips, and between his legs. Without the baggy, oversized sweaters hiding his thin frame, Thomas muses, Alexander is extremely attractive. He’s soft, not all angles like Thomas is himself. His hips don’t jut out, and he actually looks healthy. Thomas has heard multiple people comment on Alexander’s height or his weight—admittedly, Thomas has been one to insult his stature in the heat of an argument—but in this moment, he looks perfect.

When his eyes reach Alexander’s face, Alexander’s cheeks are flushed, and his gaze is focused anywhere but on Thomas.

 _Shit._ Has he overstepped somehow, with his staring? There isn’t really much of a line to overstep, considering he had just undressed Alexander as part of a dare, but maybe there was a different line he hadn’t realized existed.

He takes a few tentative steps toward Alexander, grabbing his hips to draw the man flush against his chest. He bites his lip when Alexander doesn’t look up at him, and slides his hands further down, gripping Alexander’s ass.

That gets him the reaction he wants. Alexander’s head snaps up, face flushed and eyes wide. His entire body tenses under Thomas's hands, and he’s pretty sure that Alexander stops breathing for a second.

Thomas traces his thumb along the skin where Alexander’s legs meet his hips, biting his lip when Alexander exhales sharply, trying not to focus on the desire pooling in his stomach. Alexander opens his mouth, probably to remind him again what the dare entails or question Thomas's motives, but Thomas beats him to it, cutting him off.

“If you’re okay with it, I’d really like to kiss you,” he murmurs, scanning Alexander’s face for any reaction at all, positive or negative. He knows, somewhere in the back of his lust-clouded mind, that this is probably pushing it, knows that he’s probably gone far enough over the edge that there’s no way he can take any of it back, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Thomas waits for Alexander’s hand to connect with his face, waits for him to step away and snap that kissing wasn’t part of the dare, but Alexander’s eyes flicker to Thomas's lips for half a second before shifting back to his face.

“Okay,” he whispers, barely audible.

Alexander still tastes like vodka and fake vanilla, just as dangerously intoxicating as it had been an hour ago, and Thomas presses further into the kiss. He moves his hand up from where it rests against Alexander’s hip, twists it into his hair and pulls roughly, tilting Alexander’s head back at a better angle. Alexander gasps into his mouth, and Thomas moves his other hand to cup Alexander’s jaw, fingers curving perfectly down along his neck.

Thomas bites at Alexander’s lip, licking over the spot when Alexander gasps. Alexander’s hands are on his chest and Thomas is warm again, so warm, as if the blood in his veins has been replaced by molten lava.

He pulls back after what seems like forever, gasping as he releases his grip on Alexander’s hair and ghosts his fingers across the back of his neck, running over the goosebumps below his hairline. Alexander’s hands are planted on his chest, resting just below his collarbone, and Thomas can feel his own heart beating hard against his rib cage, as if it’s a trapped bird trying to fly, and he knows Alexander can feel it too. They stand there, breathing hard in the silence, and everything is still.

And then Alexander is pressing his hands against Thomas's chest, and he can feel himself stumbling backward. He instinctively tightens his grip on Alexander’s hips in a fruitless attempt to regain his balance, and Alexander yelps, tripping forward into Thomas's chest. Thomas barely has time to process what’s happening before they both tumble gracelessly into the lake.

The cold is the first thing that Thomas registers. If he had thought that the air was cold before, he is seriously reconsidering. The water is _frigid_ compared to the humid summer breeze, stealing every bit of air from his lungs and every bit of the previous moment’s warmth from his body. He can barely breathe, let alone move, and it’s all he can do to figure out which way is up.

He breaks the surface with a gasp for air, pulled out of the deadened depths of the lake and back into the echoing silence of the countryside. The cold has worked its way into his bones, he’s pushing the water away with his hands as he tries to stay afloat, and he can hear Alexander’s gasping coughs a little ways away as he spits out water.

Fucking Hamilton shoved him into the lake.

This dare was supposed to be both of them skinny dipping in the lake, not Thomas being shoved off the dock and accidentally bringing Alexander with him. And Alexander had been on the receiving end of the dare in the first place. Thomas shouldn’t have been dragged into it at all.

His hair is going to be hell to deal with after this.

Thomas manages to get a grip on the slick edge of the dock and drags himself out of the lake, spitting water from his mouth. He can hear Alexander splashing behind him, and then a thump when he drags himself onto the dock.

Thomas doesn’t know what possesses him to do it. Maybe it’s the irritation from being unwillingly pushed into the lake or maybe it’s the lust that’s been subconsciously manipulating his every move tonight, but either way, he crosses the dock, still dripping water onto the sand-covered wood, and plants his own wet hands against Alexander’s damp skin, yanking him close and relishing the mixture of fear and anticipation in Alexander’s eyes.

Thomas lets his hands drift lower, pressing against Alexander’s hipbones and dipping between his legs to brush against his inner thighs, but just barely.

“Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop right now,” he whispers, keeping his gaze locked with Alexander’s. “I won’t do anything else if you say no.”

Alexander exhales but doesn’t reply. Thomas steps back and turns away, grateful for the darkness that hides the flush he can feel creeping up his neck. Alexander actually wants this? What the hell.

Their clothes are soaked, apparently having been close enough to the edge of the dock to be in the splash zone when they’d fallen into the lake. Thankfully, though, the towels are dry. He snatches one off the dock and wraps it around his waist, gathering his pile of soaked clothes before beginning the trek back toward the house. He can hear Alexander scrambling to follow after he remembers how to breathe.

When they reach the porch, Laf raises an eyebrow, smirking. “That took a while. And what happened to your clothes, mes amis?”

“They got soaked because _someone_ decided it would be a good idea to shove me in the lake,” Thomas says, casting a sideways glance toward Alexander. He doesn’t meet Thomas's eyes.

“Go change and then come back out,” Laf says, turning back to the game. “This is not nearly as fun without Alexander taking all the dares.”

Alexander is through the door almost as soon as Laf finishes his sentence, leaving Thomas to catch it just before it snaps shut on his fingertips.

Thomas barely pauses to brush the lingering sand from the bottoms of his feet before he makes his way through the house, his breathing quickening with every step across the smooth wood.

The rooms they’re using are directly across from each other. Alexander’s door is ajar, light spilling out at the edge of the door frame, and Thomas pushes it open with one hand as he steps inside.

The door clicks shut behind him, and Thomas reaches back blindly to turn the lock even though their friends are thoroughly occupied with their game on the porch. His towel falls to the floor as he strides across the room, and Alexander barely has time to turn around before Thomas is gripping his hips again, hard and rough, and pushing him back against the wall.

“You better be quiet,” Thomas whispers, mouth dry as he fits his knee between Alexander’s legs. “And I’ll show you what I can do with more than five seconds.”

Alexander’s hands are pressed against Thomas’s upper arms, but he’s not making any move to push Thomas away.

“You said, down at the lake, that you wanted to fuck me,” he breathes. His head falls back against the wall as Thomas aligns their hips. “Have you thought about this? About me?”

“So what if I have?” Thomas asks, trying to play it off as careless indifference. He wants to say yes, _god yes,_ he has, that he’s dreamed of pinning Alexander underneath him, of running his hands over his body until he’s shaking, of hearing his name slip from Alexander’s lips as he grips the sheets with clenched fists, but he doesn’t.

Thomas smooths his fingers down to Alexander’s thighs, slowly pushing them apart, and Alexander whimpers as he’s exposed. His muscles are taut and trembling under Thomas’s hands, and he tries to buck his hips forward off the wall even as Thomas’s fingers dig into his skin hard enough to leave bruises.

“If I told you that I have, would that change your answer?” he asks breathlessly.

Thomas’s breath hitches, his fingers stuttering on Alexander’s legs, and he knows that Alexander felt his surprise too, knows that this is the reaction he wanted as he watches a smirk creep across Alexander’s face.

“Yes,” he whispers, swallowing hard. “Fuck yes, I’ve thought about this, thought about you. Of touching you until you beg, and then fucking you until you scream my name.”

Thomas doesn’t know where the words come from—probably the same place as the words down at the dock—but they have their intended effect. Alexander’s eyes widen dramatically; they’re dark now, almost black. His lips are parted and he swallows hard before he opens his mouth again, but no sound comes out.

“If I had known saying that was the way to shut you up, I would have done it a long time ago,” Thomas murmurs. He presses his mouth to Alexander’s shoulder, open and wet, and works his way across his neck and down his chest until he drops to his knees and presses kisses to Alexander’s stomach and hips and pelvic bones. He knows his lips will leave bruises, dark and possessive across Alexander’s skin, and he knows that their friends will definitely comment, but right now, none of that matters.

The lights are still on, he realizes belatedly, and he can see every inch of Alexander’s flushed skin, his swollen lips, red marks forming rapidly on his hips from the pressure of Thomas's fingers, the sheen of sweat across his face as he clenches and unclenches his hands.

Thomas wraps his lips around Alexander’s cock, letting the weight settle against his tongue, and Alexander exhales with a moan, shifting his hips to work a better angle. Thomas really shouldn’t be surprised that Alexander can’t even shut up during sex, but he’s not complaining. Every desperate sound that falls from Alexander’s mouth drives him further into the fog in his brain, and he sucks harder, working his mouth over Alexander’s cock, listening to Alexander gasp and moan above him, hearing his fingers scrabbling against the wall, searching for purchase and finding none. “Fuck, Thomas, oh my god.”

Maybe Laurens was right, Thomas muses. He does quite like being on his knees if this is the sight he gets to see, watching Alexander fall apart from his words, his fingers, his tongue.

Alexander whines, pressing his hips forward against Thomas's mouth. “Fuck, Thomas, I…”

He’s close, so close, Thomas can tell, and he pulls away, pressing Alexander’s wrists against the wall as he comes down from his high.

“Fuck you,” Alexander gasps, flexing his wrists beneath Thomas's fingers. “You asshole, fuck you.”

Thomas laughs, still gripping Alexander’s wrists, keeping enough distance between them so that Alexander can’t grind against him, can’t get the release he so desperately wants. “Oh, that’s exactly what I plan to do, sweetheart.”

Thomas pulls Alexander away from the wall, guiding him across the room until he can shove him onto the bed. He straddles his waist and presses Alexander’s wrists above his head again while he sucks more marks onto the already tender skin of Alexander’s neck, nipping at his collarbone while he stretches his arm toward the nightstand, where he knows Laf keeps lube.

Thomas has been to this house before. He’s seen other people here with their partners, and Laf has always hinted, with raised eyebrows and coy winks, that there were supplies in the rooms if anyone needed them. Thomas has always rolled his eyes before, but now he’s grateful for Lafayette’s indiscreet tips.

He sits back on the bed and drops the lube between his knees while he runs his palms along Alexander’s inner thighs, from his knees to his groin, pressing his legs open wider until he can just barely brush his thumb against the edge of his hole.

“Please,” he gasps, and Thomas can feel him trembling. “God, please.”

It’s extremely satisfying, seeing the composed enigma that is Alexander Hamilton reduced to a begging, quivering mess beneath Thomas’s own hands. He’s desperate and needy and ineloquent; so, so ineloquent. For someone usually so well-spoken, he can’t manage more than a _yes_ or a _please_ or some sinful moan that sends goosebumps across Thomas’s skin.

“Laf doesn’t have condoms,” Thomas murmurs. “I don’t know if that matters to you, but if it does—”

“I don’t care,” Alexander gasps. “I’m clean though.”

Thomas hasn’t moved his fingers from Alexander’s thighs. “I am too, but that’s not—”

“I said I don’t care,” Alexander interrupts. “Please, just fuck me already.”

Thomas presses his fingers against Alexander’s lips, and Alexander parts them immediately, letting the pads of Thomas’s fingers slide against his tongue. Thomas pulls them out a moment later, maneuvering his hand between Alexander’s legs as he spreads them wide against the mattress.

Thomas pops the top of the lube bottle and spreads it across his fingers. He slips one finger in easily and Alexander’s back arches off the bed as he presses into the touch. Thomas adds another finger, stretching them apart before he applies pressure to Alexander’s prostate and watches the way Alexander throws his head back against the mattress, squirming away with nowhere to go.

“ _Yes_ ,” Alexander moans. “Yes, right there—”

Thomas scissors his fingers for a few more seconds before he pulls them away, and Alexander is left gasping Thomas’s name, arching his back to chase friction that Thomas isn’t going to give just yet.

Alexander’s chest is heaving as Thomas straddles him, aligns their hips, and presses his cock into Alexander in one smooth motion.

Alexander’s jaw drops and he arches off the bed far again, far enough that his chest almost brushes Thomas’s. Thomas settles their hips together and braces his hands on either side of Alexander’s head before a delayed moan finally falls from Alexander’s lips.

His thighs ache wonderfully as he thrusts roughly, leaving Alexander gasping for air between the broken moans and expletives, gritting his teeth as he bites back his own. Alexander’s hands find their way to Thomas’s shoulders, unoccupied now that Thomas isn’t pinning his wrists to the mattress. His fingernails dig into Thomas’s skin, a harsh, pinching pain that pushes Thomas further into a cloudy haze.

He can hear Alexander’s shallow breathing between tiny gasps and moans, his pleas for _more, harder, faster,_ all through gritted teeth, and Thomas obliges without question. His breath falls out of rhythm with his thrusts, and when Alexander’s hands drop from his shoulders, Thomas presses his fingers against Alexander’s wrists again, drawing them up above his head and exposing Alexander’s skin for his further admiration.

Alexander comes hard, crying out as he digs his fingers into Thomas’s skin, and Thomas rolls his hips hard against Alexander’s one last time before Alexander clenches around him and pushes him over the edge.

Thomas sinks his teeth into his lip until he can taste blood, relishing the burning pain in his lungs as he stops breathing because he knows, even through the foggy haze clouding his brain, that Alexander’s name isn’t allowed to slip from his lips. Not yet. Probably not ever.

Alexander whines, oversensitive, when Thomas pulls away. He can hear Alexander’s shallow gasps for breath that match his own as he sits back on the bed. Alexander pushes himself into a sitting position as well, and Thomas glances over, taking a moment to admire the red, irritated skin decorating Alexander’s neck.

It’s intimate, Thomas realizes, how close they’re sitting. Sure, he’s had sex with people, but those were always meaningless one-night stands. This is too, he figures, but it’s different somehow.

Alexander shifts slightly closer, turning his entire body toward Thomas. “That was—”

“We should go back,” Thomas interrupts, reaching out and smoothing his fingers over one of the bite marks on Alexander’s collarbone. He doesn’t want Alexander to finish that sentence. He doesn’t need to hear what he already knows. Alexander glances down at Thomas’s fingers on his skin before he shifts away.

“Yeah,” he agrees slowly. He licks his lips and runs his fingers along the edge of the bed. “I… yeah. They’re probably wondering where we are.”

Thomas lets his hand fall when Alexander twists his shoulders away. He shouldn’t have touched him like that, like this is something comfortable and intimate, because it’s not. And he doesn’t want to hear what Alexander has to say about them having sex because it will only confirm what Thomas already knows. There are so many ways that sentence could end. _That was a mistake. That was stupid. That was a one-time thing._

This doesn’t mean anything.

Thomas doesn’t look at Alexander again before he pushes himself off the bed and snatches his discarded towel from the floor.

He crosses to the room down the hall, the one where he’d dropped his bag when he arrived, and shuts the door behind him. He pulls on the first clothes that he touches, ties his damp hair back as best he can, and takes a steadying breath before he opens the door.

The hallway is empty. The door of the room Alexander is using is open and the room is dark. Thomas shouldn’t have expected anything else. He shouldn’t have hoped that Alexander might be swaying awkwardly in place outside the door, pacing the width of the tiny hallway as he waited for Thomas to come out so he could ask to talk about what had just happened.

By the time Thomas slips back onto the porch, Alexander has settled himself beside Laurens once more, wearing a hoodie that covers the irritated skin where Thomas's mouth had been only minutes before. Alexander glances up when Thomas sits on the porch beside Burr, and Thomas looks away before Alexander can catch him staring.

He supposes it will be Hamilton now, not Alexander. They’ll go back to last names, go back to arguing every time they run into each other, and go back to having absolutely nothing between them even though the aftermath of this dare would always be bubbling somewhere beneath the surface.

And Thomas will be fine with that.

An hour or so later, Laurens and Mulligan are the first to head in, supporting an intoxicated Lafayette between them. Everyone else follows soon after, including Alexander. Thomas almost wishes that he had stayed out, lingered just long enough that they could talk alone, maybe kiss again.

Thomas pauses, his hand curled around the cold handle on the door. Why did he want to talk to Hamilton about this? Why did he want to kiss him? All his stupid fantasies hadn’t gone past a physical relationship.

Right?

He twists the handle roughly and pulls the door open. It had been a one-time thing. He’d already gotten more than he thought he would. And what was to say that Alexander even wanted to kiss him again? Sure, they’d had sex, but sex and relationships didn’t always go together.

He doesn’t want to kiss Hamilton. He doesn’t want to talk about the fact that they had sex. He doesn’t want to touch him, he doesn’t want anything more than physical gratification, and he doesn’t want to be able to call Alexander _his._

And he’ll keep telling himself that until he believes it.

But until then, he’ll toss and turn under the lake house’s fancy sheets and try not to imagine how it would feel with Alexander beside him in the bed, one of Thomas’s arms wrapped around his waist.

He spends more time staring vacantly around the room than he does actually sleeping, and watches the sky grow lighter every time he glances toward the window.

It’s too bright to sleep by the time his mind finally calms down, and Thomas shoves himself out of bed. He doesn’t bother changing his clothes, his contacts are probably ruined from his tumble into the lake—not that he feels like putting them in—and he can’t remember where he put his glasses.

His hair is a mess, tangled and matted, and he tries to work his fingers through it for about thirty seconds before he gives up and lets it hang around his face. He’ll deal with it when he's home and actually has the hair products that work wonders on his destroyed hair.

When he walks into the kitchen, Mulligan, Laurens, Angelica, Eliza, and Burr are the only ones sitting around the table. Half the group looks miserably hungover, and Laf and Alexander are nowhere to be seen. Thomas silently takes a seat at the breakfast bar after pouring a cup of coffee, infinitely grateful that he doesn’t have to deal with the lasting headache that comes with drinking copious amounts of alcohol.

He moves over when Mulligan gets up to brew more coffee, accepting the man’s nod of acknowledgement as Mulligan fiddles with the coffee maker.

Thomas taps his fingers against the side of his mug as he waits for the steam to dissipate. The group in the kitchen is oddly quiet. Half of them are probably hungover, but he’s honestly wondering when they’re going to decide to grill him about what happened last night.

Hamilton appears in the doorway, midway through pulling his hair up into a ponytail, bruises proudly displayed across his collarbone, and Thomas’s heart skips a beat before he tears his gaze away and stares into his coffee.

Will they talk about last night? Or will they just go back to arguing, throwing insults back and forth with reckless abandon? Arguing seems more likely. One night couldn’t possibly change everything. None of it meant anything, and besides, everyone in the room is still under the impression that they hate each other, no matter what they think happened down at the lake.

So when Hamilton immediately crosses the kitchen to stand in front of him, Thomas tries not to seem surprised.

Hamilton takes a breath. “Hey, can we—”

“Jesus, Alex, what happened to your neck?”

Mulligan’s words are loud enough for the entire kitchen to hear, and Thomas glances up from his coffee in time to see every eye in the room focus on the dark bruises marring Hamilton’s smooth skin.

Shit.

Laurens’s eyes widen comically and he chokes on his coffee, coughing hard as he stares at the purplish marks covering Hamilton’s neck. Burr is staring at Thomas, Eliza is grinning into her mug, and Angelica is seemingly cured of her alcohol-induced headache, glancing back and forth between the two of them and smirking as she connects the dots.

Hamilton also seems to be frozen, staring wide-eyed at Mulligan as he lifts a hand up to brush his neck, possibly in an attempt to cover the marks.

“I, uh…” He meets Thomas's eyes for a split second before his gaze flits down to the floor, but that second is all Thomas needs.

_He doesn’t care._

The room spins for a moment, and then Thomas is pushing his chair away from the breakfast bar, sending the rest of his coffee cascading across the marble surface before he brushes past Alexander without meeting his eyes. Angelica’s laughter and Hamilton’s shouting of “Jefferson, wait!” chase him mockingly from the room.

He nearly crashes into Lafayette as he turns into the hallway, barely pausing to apologize as his friend steadies himself against the wall and asks what’s wrong. By the time he makes it to his room, his breath is coming in shaky gasps and his heart is pounding painfully against his rib cage. He locks the door behind him, pressing his back against the wood as he slides to the floor and buries his head in his hands.

He hadn’t cared last night when he’d sucked those marks onto Alexander’s skin, rewarded by the quiet gasps that fell from Alexander’s lips. What the fuck had he been thinking? He didn’t know where the hell all his confidence had come from last night. He didn’t know what had made him so bold. He almost wishes he could attribute the words, the suggestions, the touches, all of it to alcohol, but he can’t.

Alexander can, though. Thomas thinks that he can still feel the biting taste of vodka on his own lips, even now, hours later. Vodka and vanilla.

Dangerously intoxicating.

Alexander wouldn’t have let Thomas kiss him had he been sober. He wouldn’t have let Thomas kiss him, wouldn’t have let Thomas touch him in all the ways he did, wouldn’t have dragged his nails against Thomas’s skin and begged for more. So when the sun came up and the only things left from the darkness of the night before were the bruises and the pounding headache from dehydration, it made sense that Alexander wouldn’t care. It made sense that he wouldn’t try to defend Thomas from their friends’ accusing stares and that he wouldn’t want to explain what had transpired because all it had been to him was a mistake.

And even with that realization fresh in his mind, Thomas knows it will never be _Hamilton,_ at least not in his own head. It will always be _Alexander_.

Fuck this stupid crush.

Nothing would _ever_ have come out of this; Thomas had known that from the beginning. He had told himself that the spin the bottle kiss was nothing even though he ached for more. He had told himself that the skinny dipping was just a dare, which was true, but then he’d gone and taken it too far. He’d gotten more than he ever thought he would be able to have, but it still wasn’t enough, and none of it would ever turn into anything.

He’d done something stupid in the moment last night, and now he doesn’t know what he’s doing or what he actually wants.

No. That’s a lie. He knows exactly what he wants. He just doesn’t know how to go about getting it.

A knock on the door vibrates through his back and Alexander’s muffled voice sounds through the wood.

“Can we talk?” The floor creaks outside the door. “Please?”

It’s the _please_ that makes him pause. It’s different from the _please_ from last night that had been desperate and wanting, and Thomas knows he’s a mess, that his hair is still tangled and matted and his eyes are probably red from crying, but he stands up and opens the door anyway.

“What do you want?”

Alexander steps back and stares, wide-eyed, at Thomas. “I, uh…”

“I know you don’t care, Hamilton,” Thomas whispers, ripping his gaze away from the dark bruises that have bloomed across Alexander’s collarbone since last night, the ones that have ultimately gotten him into this mess. “It was just a quick fuck and I don’t know what I was thinking and you were drunk and—”

“I wasn’t, actually,” Alexander cuts in. “Drunk, I mean.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Don’t lie,” he says. “I was pretty familiar with your mouth last night, and I think I know what vodka tastes like.”

“I wasn’t drunk!” Alexander protests, taking a step closer. “It was one shot, okay? One. Laf gave it to me when I got there, but I didn’t drink anything else for the rest of the night.”

“Then why’d you let it happen?” Thomas asks. “Why’d you let me touch you if you weren’t drunk?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Alexander snaps. “I watched you all night, I—” He falters. “I know you weren’t drunk either,” he finishes quietly.

“I said it already. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking last night.” Thomas picks at the peeling paint on the corner of the door frame. “I got caught up in the dare, the moment, the darkness, whatever, and I took it too far. Everything is always easier when it’s dark outside.”

“Yeah, well that doesn’t mean you don’t get to talk about it in the morning.”

“Well, what do you want to talk about?” Thomas snaps. “We fucked, Hamilton. You let me suck you off last night, and then you go and act all embarrassed this morning when Mulligan comments on the hickeys that I left on your neck.”

Alexander brushes his fingers over the marks again, slower than he had in the kitchen.

Thomas takes a shaky breath and twists his fingers into his tangled curls before he opens his mouth again. “If you regret having sex with me, then just say it, but don’t—”

“I like you, all right?” Alexander says bluntly.

Thomas’s fingers slacken in his hair and his breath sticks in his chest, but Alexander is still talking.

“We argue all the fucking time and it seems really fucking stupid, but I think I fell for you somewhere along the way,” Alexander says. He’s dropped his gaze to the floor. “I was _going_ to say something but I was waiting for the perfect time, but of course there’s never a perfect time, and then Laf set me up because he knows I won’t back down from a fucking dare. So stripping in front of you before skinny dipping in the lake wasn’t exactly how I wanted that confession to go, but I let it fucking happen anyway because I couldn’t just admit that I want you.”

Thomas blinks. “Is that all?”

Alexander stares at him. “No, not really,” he says after a second. “There’s more, but it sounds even more desperate if I say it out loud and it’s not fair to push it all on you if you don’t—”

Thomas steps forward and pulls Alexander closer by his elbows.

“Shut up,” he whispers, sliding his hands down from Alexander’s elbows to his wrists. “You talk too much.”

He captures Alexander’s lips with his own, bruising pressure and tongue and teeth and all, kissing until he runs out of air.

“You know, I think I was drunk last night,” Alexander gasps, and Thomas’s heart stops.

“What?” He pulls away, distancing himself again. His fingers are still gripping Alexander’s wrists like a lifeline. “But you said—”

A devilish grin makes its way across Alexander’s face. “Drunk on you.”

Thomas releases the painful breath stuck in his chest. “Fuck you,” he whispers. “ _God,_ don’t do that.”

He releases Alexander’s wrists to rest them on his hips and turns him around to align his spine with the door frame. Alexander slips his hands up between Thomas’s arms to press against his chest, and Thomas leans back to give him access.

Alexander begins to work his way down the column of buttons on Thomas’s shirt and Thomas watches his hands, focusing on the small shadows across Alexander’s wrists. He thinks it’s just the light until Alexander twists his wrists to push Thomas’s shirt from his shoulders, and Thomas realizes that the shadows are actually bruises in the shape of his own fingers.

Thomas takes another step back from Alexander and ignores his protests in favor of reaching up to take Alexander’s wrists gently in his hands. He runs his thumb carefully over the marks before he brings Alexander’s wrist to his face and presses his lips to the bruises on the inside, well aware of Alexander’s piercing gaze on him the whole time.

“Possessive much?” Alexander breathes.

“Maybe,” Thomas whispers. He kisses the other wrist. “Maybe I just don’t like seeing that I hurt you last night.”

“I really don’t care,” Alexander murmurs. “It felt good.”

Thomas pulls his lips away from Alexander’s wrist and presses them against his mouth instead.

“You still taste like vanilla,” Thomas whispers against his skin, taking pleasure in the way Alexander shivers.

Alexander hums, tilting his head back and giving Thomas better access to his neck. “Is the vanilla all you noticed about me last night?”

“No.” Thomas presses his mouth against Alexander’s skin. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not really,” Alexander murmurs. “But you seemed to like how I sounded last night.”

Thomas squares his hips with Alexander’s, pressing their bodies flush against each other as he cups Alexander’s jaw and brushes a thumb across his mouth.

“Let me do it properly this time,” he whispers. “Please.”

Alexander’s hands are already pressing against Thomas’s chest, pushing his unbuttoned shirt from his shoulders as Thomas drops his hands to Alexander’s waist. He has just leaned down to connect their lips when someone clears their throat from further down the hallway.

“Could you guys stop fucking in the doorway and maybe come tell us what happened last night?”

Thomas jerks away, keen to put as much distance between them as possible, but Alexander’s hands are just as quick as he steps forward and pulls Thomas’s shirt back up to cover his shoulders. He runs his fingers along the seams at the top and there’s a possessiveness in his touch that wasn’t there before. He calmly pushes the buttons through their holes and keeps his eyes on his hands when he says, “I don’t really think it’s any of your business.”

Angelica sighs, raising her eyebrows. “Really?”

“It was our dare, not yours.” Alexander fastens the last button on Thomas’s shirt. “Technically, it was only supposed to be mine. And I don’t kiss and tell.”

“So you _did_ kiss last night.”

Alexander tugs to straighten Thomas’s collar, pulling Thomas’s eyes back to his face. “I didn’t say that.”

“Cut me some slack, Alex.” Thomas can hear the downward pull in her voice that probably goes with a droop in posture. “I can’t remember half of what happened last night.”

Thomas feels Alexander’s fingers intertwine themselves with his own as he turns to face Angelica. “Well, it’s not my fault that you were drunk.”

Thomas glances back at Angelica in time to see her massive eye roll. “Well, feel free to join us in the kitchen whenever you two are done here.”

Angelica disappears around the corner, and Alexander squeezes Thomas’s hand once before dropping it at his side. “C’mon. They’re going to question us eventually. Might as well get it over with.”

Thomas reaches out as Alexander turns to leave, gripping his wrist lightly to tug him back.

“Truth or dare, Alexander?”

Alexander turns around, lips parted and eyebrows raised. “Truth.”

Thomas swallows. “Do you regret last night?”

Alexander steps back, twisting his wrist and smoothing his fingers over Thomas's knuckles. “No,” he says. “No, I don’t.”


End file.
